


Aphelion

by KIBITZER



Series: Cold Magnet Earth [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Other, Retelling, Suicide, V6E3, nonbinary oz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-01-27 06:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KIBITZER/pseuds/KIBITZER
Summary: “Well, I suppose, if you feel the same way, that we—that you and I—we could always just end it. Together.”Ozma met her eyes again, mouth slanting into a slow grin, voice soft as a summer night: “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”____This series is an expanded retelling of the story of v6e3, with some alterations and AU elements.
Relationships: Ozma/Salem
Series: Cold Magnet Earth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541866
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

Sunset. The horizon bled red and violent. She had an unparalleled view of it from her tower; every night a front-row seat to the sun’s slow demise. At her back, there was no window; the sun’s inevitable resurrection was not a sight she was permitted, yet it happened every morning, despite the ugly red of its setting.

Salem watched the sun make its death-march for the nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty-fifth time in her life. An unpleasant itch crawled up her skin like thousands of little spider-legs. Things were always worse in the dark. Things were always darker. A ghosting of vile violet and sallow yellow still bit into her arms like leopard spots, days old but still just as tender as her trampled pride.

An animal. She felt like an animal. In a cage, playing at civility for fear of retribution, falling into retribution nonetheless.

Biting down on her discomfort, Salem returned her attention to the embroidery in her lap, shaking off her thoughts for another few stitches while light remained. The dying sun cast the red and yellow threads in glimmering vibrancy, honeyed the greens into brown and hues of forest.

When she pulled the thread taut to tighten the last finishing knot, the floor rumbled under her. Salem raised an eyebrow, glancing down, and set her work aside with the hundreds of others just like it. The floor shook again, harder this time, a distant quake like the planet itself was moving. Her skin crawled as if in warning, prickling along bruises and old fractures.

Slowly, she rose from her chair, steadying a hand on the table in case of further quakes. She strained her hearing as she moved to stand in the window, to try and see what was happening.

In the grim light of the dying sun, she saw plainly—her father’s guards, sprawled across the castle grounds, their blood dark as pools of night. Motionless, but for the life still bubbling out of them.

A chill coiled in her gut when she heard the fervent sounds of battle—of magic, and metal against metal, and collateral collapse. It went on. It was still going on. It was drawing nearer.

The tower was being taken.

Chance.

Without even pausing to gather her thoughts, Salem threw her chamber door open, taking the stairs two at a time. Another blast of war-primed magic shook the tower around her. Closer now. More violent too. Ever darker.

She presumed by the feel of it that Father had joined the battle at last.

The landing was devoid of its usual guards. No one was watching her. For the first time in gods know how long. She turned side to side, finding the coast entirely clear, and set off towards the main hall. Salem cared little for the castle or her belongings; she would depart in the chaos, never look back.

But she had to cross the grand hall to get there, and that's where she came upon the battle.

Her father was there, sword in one hand and magic spinning in the other. Two guards still breathed, standing at his sides, swords drawn on the intruder.

At once, at a single glance, the match was clear to her, and the bubbling of hope in her breast sank like a stone.

The army taking the castle was only one. The lone fighter seemed exhausted from the battle, leaning heavily on a gem-set staff, but magic still coursed through the veins, glimmering in a gloved palm. Blood streaked down armor and wetted clumps of hair from a cut along the temple, but the warrior’s eyes were furiously alive.

Salem already knew how this would end. She knew that Father could smell weakness, like a shark scenting blood—that he would put an end to a thing in its death throes without a second thought.

It was already over—in a second, in a mere heartbeat, that merciless magic would fire and find its target, would gouge and kill and butcher.

Only one. One soldier. And once the battle was over, Father and his guards would turn and see her, would catch her red-handed, would—

_But no one had seen her yet. _

A thousand synapses connected together like links in a chain. It was a rush of reason, a cascade of logic and fight-or-flight responses. She had answers before she conceptualized their questions. It felt like eons, the amount of information running her mind to fever-pitch and hyper-speed, like a cat’s pupils dilating at the sight of prey.

Father moved, and before she knew it Salem did too, pulling up from her soul a wealth of magic—sharp and violet and bright, it sailed through the air like a thousand arrows, like sentient swords, like a hail of Death incarnate. Her mind was blank, blighted white with the force of magic, with the single-minded intent to strike and hurt and protect herself. With single-minded fury and fear. It was all she could think, was all she could breathe, and the heat in her fingertips was like dipping into the planet’s core, vividly scorched by magic passing through her skin and bones.

She knew: magic was half power, half intent.

Her magic easily cut through metal plate with a screech like a banshee, tearing through armor and flesh alike. Her father, and his guards—their backs were wide open and she aimed to kill. A dozen ripping thuds each—a bellow of magic, the smell of it in the air, and the three men fell, dead, never even knowing she was there.

The warrior looked wildly around, and finally laid eyes on Salem with an apprehensive expression. As if expecting her to open fire again. As if she was as untrustworthy as her father—and she supposed she was. But the look faded, and the intruder straightened, readied magic fading away with a sizzle.

“Are you Salem?” The voice was clear like a bell despite ragged appearances.

The heat in her hands faded away. She rubbed at her fingers—they were unharmed, of course, but the prickling sensation of overflow lingered. Hesitantly, trying not to look at the bodies that lay between herself and the soldier, Salem nodded. “I am. Who—?”

“I came to help. To free you—though I guess you managed by yourself in the end—my name is Ozma.”

“Ozma,” she repeated, sounding out the syllables. Something to hold on to, as her mind reeled from its own resolve, drunk on its own poison. She swayed on the spot.

“We can leave together,” Ozma said, holding out a magic-burnished palm, “or I could leave you to your plans; whichever you prefer.”

She had killed her own father. She was free to go. It didn't quite sink in until she saw the empty hand extended to her, until the crackle of magic died down fully inside her own body like a candle blown from its wick. Until she felt the bruises humming almost pleasantly along her body, a self-satisfied kind of ache.

She clenched her jaw resolutely. Fought back nausea. Salem squared her shoulders, crossed the room without looking down, and took Ozma’s hand.

“You didn't come for my favor,” she observed. “You didn't come to claim me?”

Ozma held her hand with such infallible grace, leading her towards the bloodied doors. “I am not the kind of person who believes others are mine to claim,” Ozma said carefully. “I simply happen to be the kind of person who cannot abide by injustice.”

They exited the castle. The sun had set, and the grounds were bathed in blue and hues thereof. Quietly, stars twinkled into view, pale against the velvet sky.

She killed him. With her own hands, her own magic, her own father. All it took was a moment—one decision—one chance.

And she didn't even feel bad about it.

But—

Her hand must have tightened around Ozma’s fingers because she heard a questioning noise, felt the weight of eyes upon her.

“I am,” she started, brows pulled together in vague discomfort, “unsure.”

“Of what?” Ozma asked.

“Of what to do. Of who I am. Of where to go.” She looked at Ozma and tried to smile, but saw the blood smeared on pale metal and brown skin and couldn't quite muster it.

“My father is dead,” she said. “My home was never a home to me. I ask of you: what can I do now?”

“You're free,” Ozma said. “You can do anything and everything you wish.”

Salem lowered her gaze, brows knitting. She knew her fingers were vice-tight around Ozma’s and she bit her lip, staring hard at nothing at all. She recognized the nausea roiling within herself. Recognized the intimate pull of death when she met it. She looked around at the littered bodies of Father’s guards and she felt—

“What about you?” she finally asked.

“What of me?” Ozma countered, a little playfully, smiling gently at her—trying to lighten her mood somehow.

Salem lifted her eyes, met Ozma’s. “Where will _you_ go? Who are _you_, Ozma? What will _you_ do?”

“I—” Ozma seemed to freeze, all that easygoing confidence draining away in a flash. Gray-faced and stumbling, Ozma awkwardly looked away, saying: “Well, I—am not so sure, myself. I go where I am needed. I do what I feel is right. I am—I am—just Ozma.”

“You're running from something too,” Salem observed, and she could tell her words fit like a knife between Ozma’s ribs.

They both stood there in the dark night, too far away from the town below to be bathed in its lights, too far from the sky to drown in its darkness. Their hands were warm about one another. They were surrounded by bodies and somehow alive.

Ozma’s jaw clenched and unclenched as if trying to remember how to speak at all. “Yes. I am also running. I also don't know where to. I move because I am afraid to stop.”

“Take me with you,” Salem said.

“Truly? You would go with someone as lost as I am?” Ozma looked askance—down, upon those who lay motionless around the castle. “I am barely alive, Salem—doing battle is what I am best at, and like you saw, I am not even very good at that. I thought your father would kill me. I may not have stopped him. And still you would go with me?”

Salem looked back to the empty castle. Her bedroom window cast a soft candlelight glow, but beyond that, the building was dark and cold. Even her bedroom light would eventually be snuffed out. She looked down, trailing once more over the corpses at their feet.

“I have nothing,” she said. “Within a few more years—or even months—of that life, I would surely be dead. By his hand or mine. I have no relatives, nowhere to go.” She turned to look at Ozma and finally she smiled, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. “Well, I suppose, if you feel the same way, that we—that you and I—we could always just end it. Together.”

Ozma met her eyes again, mouth slanting into a slow grin, voice soft as a summer night: “To die would be an awfully big adventure.”

“Let’s go,” Salem said, resolute once more. “Until we find a lovely place we both like. Until we can't see land.”

“Yeah,” Ozma agreed. “Let’s do that. Just you and me. We’ll meet the end of the line running.”

“Let’s never worry about anything,” Salem supplemented, as they started walking in unison, hand in hand toward the village. “Let’s do whatever pleases us and never be afraid because death is not coming for us; we are coming for it.”

“I like that,” Ozma said. “I like that a lot.”

* * *

She woke up early the next day, still fully dressed, laying in a heap with Ozma in the back stall of a barn where they had boarded for free. She shook her companion awake by the shoulders and pulled at Ozma’s hands until both of them were outside, watching the sun revive over the horizon. The light of it shattering pink and red and yellow cast Ozma’s sleepy eyes in honey.

The air was so refreshing outside the tower. Salem breathed deep of it, feeling freedom like never before in her life. Every color, every scent, every sound was hers to keep; her oppressors dead and gone, her shackles at last undone.

Ozma had money; Salem had ambition. They pooled their resources. Neither of them particularly wanted to die in this town; it was not a home to Salem, and Ozma was simply passing through. It had no value. They broke bread over a tattered map from Ozma’s pack and pointed out places they wanted to see, journeys they wanted to take.

Salem asked Ozma if she should feel worse than she did. If she should be crushed by guilt over what she had done. Ozma broke the last bit of bread in half and handed her a piece and said, “No one mourns the wicked. Devour your oppressors, Salem, they never will hurt you again.”

“The townspeople called you a righteous hero,” Salem said. “I am not sure the hero they imagine would say that.”

She was smiling, but Ozma appeared puzzled. “Is that what you think of me? To the contrary—where I'm from, they called me spineless and untalented. So I decided to do whatever I wanted—to do what I think is right, rather than what people might want me to do. But I do not think you are guilty of anything, Salem.” A long pause. Ozma stared down at the bread contemplatively. “I would not feel guilt, had I succeeded in killing him. Do you hold any love for him? Any at all?”

“No,” Salem said. “He kept me in that tower my entire life. He controlled every aspect of my life. I did not love him; his presence was a shadow over me at every turn.”

“I believe you,” Ozma said. “That is what everyone told me. They said he was a tyrant. They said he kept his daughter under lock and key. They said he tormented farmers and destroyed livelihoods. That he held the region in a vice grip. That he beat anyone who disobeyed him within an inch of their life. You—were one of his victims. You may feel however you choose. I cannot judge. I—” Ozma drew a sharp breath and looked away briefly before meeting her eyes again. “What I mean to say is, it would be hypocritical of me to torment you over it, as I was there to end him myself—I started this fight. We both have blood on our hands. And everyone is thanking us for it. Isn't that funny?”

Salem ate of her bread and sipped from their shared tankard of water and said: “I was beaten within an inch of my life, as you said. A constant, throughout my life. I am thanking myself for this blood.”

Ozma took the tankard when she offered it, and inclined it gently in her direction in a mock toast. “To killing your tormentors.”

Salem returned the salute with her last piece of bread. “To freedom.”

* * *

They rode along with a trade convoy heading south, to warmer tides, on the back of a cart that was as rickety as Salem’s own heart. She sat on the hard, uncomfortable wood, feet dangling over the dust road, and stared at nothing at all, thinking.

She was relieved at their plans to die. She was eager. She had realized a simple thing: that she did not know how to live. In all her years she had never been allowed to. Now, by herself, she lacked the knowledge how. Perhaps she had never wanted to.

They had collected a wonderful payment for slaying Salem’s father. His death had been far more valuable than his life ever was. She wondered; what was the final tally of her own? Surely her death would be worth less—but maybe it balanced out, as surely her life, too, was even less valuable.

She kept fearing that Ozma would turn on her. That Ozma would strike her down and lock her up again; condemned to live on, an endless isolated life in her tower, bound to be nothing but the lord’s possession.

But Ozma looked at her, not through her like her father had. Ozma looked at her, so softly human, so beautifully human, and she at once felt guilty for her fear.

She hadn't yet managed to pry more information about the past from Ozma, but she supposed that was fine. They each had things they preferred not to dwell on. As long as they were together, anything was fine.

Voices roused Salem from her thoughts. A call went up the caravan: Mascon on the horizon. Salem turned around in the cart, pulling her legs up to rise on her knees, and over the backs of carts and horses she could see it too—city spires rising over the horizon, smoke from houses and tall battlements and lush farmland.

Salem gave Ozma a nudge. “Wake up,” she said. “We’re here.”

Ozma mumbled something unintelligible, but cracked an eye open to look at her. She quirked an eyebrow and said: “Mascon, Ozma.”

“Right.” Ozma sat up a little, blinking away sleep, joints cracking. “Sorry—was I asleep for long?”

“A while,” Salem said. “How do you feel?”

“Rested. Stiff. At the same time.” Ozma laughed. “How about you?”

“About the same,” she said, and smiled. “Maybe this time we should go for an inn.”

“Hear, hear,” Ozma said, smothering a yawn.

When they hopped off the carriage at the gates of Mascon, Ozma was recognized. As the two of them made their way through the city, people hailed Ozma as a hero. Legend had spread this far, of righteous deeds and good judgment, of a heroic man in silver and green. They all looked to Ozma with joy, but Salem saw better than any of them—the words and praise and epithets did not hit Ozma as perhaps they should. Indeed, Ozma looked unfazed in the worst way—not through being accustomed to such lauding, but through dissociation. Ozma was shutting down and she was the only one who saw how the words passed right through.

Fear and worry set in, but before those could take hold she set her jaw and decided to act. Ozma was growing blanker by the minute, saying less and less, eyes growing glassy, and Salem hated that empty, isolated expression.

She took Ozma’s hand as they walked, holding it tightly to her side, pulling Ozma close, walking faster. She walked until she found an inn. Pulled the door open with resolve and arranged with the keeper for a room. And the entire time, all she could think about was how slack Ozma’s hand was in hers.

She sat Ozma down in the room. The silence lasted for a bit, with no indication of breaking, so Salem took initiative. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ozma said.

“Ozma, I can tell something is wrong,” Salem said, kneeling on the floor to see Ozma’s face.

“I'll be okay. With the peace and quiet I'll be okay.”

“Is it the people? Or is it what they call you?”

Ozma’s slight nod pointed to the second. “I'm not their hero. And I'm not—I am just—I am—just Ozma.”

“But you aren't _nobody_,” Salem said. “You deserve recognition for the good you've done.”

Ozma looked away. “Salem, I only do good because I know I am not good. Do you understand? I am no hero, I—I just pretend to be, to do good things, because I'm not good.”

“I don't,” Salem admitted. “I don't understand. I don't think there is a difference. I don't think pure good or pure evil exist. I don't think pure exists.”

“My mother wanted a noble son. Father wanted a righteous daughter. I gave them neither. I'm someone you can't trust, I'm—nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“What have you done?” Salem asked directly.

The question seemed to rattle Ozma. Most people would not ask so directly, Salem knew—certainly not when Ozma was upset. But she had little patience for most people, and she wanted better than to leave a festering wound.

“Ozma, what have you done wrong?”

“I—all of it,” Ozma said. “I ran away from my home.”

“Hundreds do,” Salem said.

“I eschewed my father’s name for a pipe dream.”

“I murdered mine for less.”

“I left my people to die. I abandoned my sisters. I let my _mother_ die. I ran like a coward, and then I kept running because I knew I couldn't save anyone and I couldn't bear to face that. I met new people in my travels, and even when strangers became friends I eventually failed them somehow.”

“You didn't kill them,” Salem said.

“Yeah. I just never tried to save them.” Ozma smiled bitterly. “They always said I was no good. That I would never walk a right path. I'm a crooked kind, Salem. Innocent lives lay destroyed in my wake because I was always too much of a coward to act. So I decided to do what good I can now, to die playing the role of a hero, but—when I hear those words echoing back at me, it all comes flooding back.”

“You are young,” Salem said. “I am young. We will find a good place to die, and then we will die. No one will call it heroic. Are you fine with that?”

“I want to die easy,” Ozma said. “I am so tired.”

“Easy it is,” Salem agreed. “But, if I may—one thing.”

Ozma finally met her eyes. She was still on her knees on the floor, where she could easily see Ozma’s drawn expression. They held each other's hands.

“I think,” Salem began, hesitantly: “I do not think we are born inherently good or inherently evil. I think that choosing to do good when you can is what makes you good, Ozma—it isn't your birth or your past.”

“I'm not like you,” Ozma said. “Your past was far harder than mine and yet—it has not made you bitter. You are good, Salem, you were born good. You've been through hell and you came out singing. I am—I am—not like you.”

“Maybe not,” Salem said. “Maybe no two people are ever truly like one another. But I was taught that good and evil are human ideas. That when we die, when we go to be judged, it will be by a metric kinder than our own. You and I will meet infinity smiling. I promise you that.”

“Thank you,” Ozma said.


	2. Chapter 2

They decided to keep heading south until they hit Great And Holy Saros, the capital of the entire southern continent. Mascon was a decent place, but the air was brittle and bitter there, the colors drab. It was a tall city indeed, with spires and factory works, but it had a tang of hopelessness in all of it. They could not seem to find peace there.

Ozma and Salem walked the streets restlessly, like kids with nothing to do; loitering, walking along the tops of divider walls, trespassing for shortcuts. Ozma counted money and announced they had more than enough to make it to Holy Saros. Salem dictated her plans for when they got there. The city's annual festival would be near when they arrived; she intended to see the sights, to view Saros’s attractions, to earn some renown in the night. Ozma smiled gamely and said they had all the time in the world.

If the city felt right, if the festival riveted them, that might be it. They may never see another day. To die high on the party and its colored smoke might not be so bad. 

Ozma never seemed to quite recover from the welcome the people of Mascon had given. Never seemed to shake the ghost of heroism. Haunted by that ghost, the specter of a man in silver and green. Salem looked and saw a hall of mirrors, endlessly bouncing the words back and forth and back again, all contained in the black corridor behind Ozma’s eyes.

Mascon felt a lot like her father, Salem thought. It was dark and cold and wanted control of her and Ozma. It wanted to contain her in its walls and control every breath through her lungs.

She confessed as much to Ozma, one night they lay side by side in a rented bed. She explained how Mascon’s walls were familiar in esoteric ways. Told Ozma how the smoke of the city smelled like the scorch of magic so familiar to her battered body.

They had changed into bedclothes in front of one another several times. Seen each other merely in inner garments. Every time Ozma had laid eyes on the fading sallow and blue along her skin, the contempt was plain to see. This night was no different.

As Salem explained her feelings, Ozma stared at her body. Soon, those bruises would be completely gone; Ozma stared as if refusing to ever forget they were there.

Mascot was like her father, Salem said. Walking its streets was like walking in circles inside his open palm, knowing that at any moment he might simply clench his fist.

“Then Mascon can burn for all I care,” was all Ozma said.

They left early the next morning.

* * *

Riding horseback was fun, Salem discovered. The height, the speed, the wind in her hair—Ozma, meanwhile, immediately looked queasy from the shifting motion of the horse’s gait. She rode circles around Ozma, whose pace slowed and gained at random depending on the nausea.

The distance between Mascon and Holy Saros was open fields and farmland. It was wide and vast as the eye could see, sprawling eons of swaying green grass and yellow straw. The sky above was kind and warm, the sun close and caring, temperature rising as they ventured ever south towards Saros.

They had bought new clothes in Mascon before departing—looser drape and lighter cloth, designed to weather this southern sun. Salem tied her hair up. She rode feeling the wind on her neck and arms and calves, closed her eyes to smell the sweet air and sang in turn with the wind howling past.

Even Ozma was glad to see her like that, despite the waves of discomfort fighting for power over happiness. The nausea only disappeared at night, when the two of them set camp and rested. Ozma came to life then, joining her for story and song over supper.

It was one of those nights, sweet and warm despite the low light, when they sat near their fire together, that Salem dared to ask: “Ozma, where are you from?”

Ozma looked at her for a long time, eyes searching hers for ulterior motive. Finally: “Umbra.”

She drew a slow, understanding breath.

Umbra lay to the far west of Salem’s own hometown; a small but thriving trade port on the coast of the great sea. Its people were hospitable, its weather cool but not unforgiving, and the trade ships of Umbra were beacons of goodwill and fairness—

Were, all of it _were_, because Umbra had been destroyed.

Even Salem knew. She had heard it go up like a cry for fire among the guards and servants in her tower: _Umbra has fallen—all crumbled to the sea._

It was besieged by the creatures of Grimm. Umbra did not have many political enemies; indeed, it was a port that preferred to negotiate compromises rather than fight for resources. But the sea was an enemy unto itself. The sea hid darknesses beyond Umbra’s defenses.

Help had not arrived to Umbra in time. Perhaps if it had held a more sizable army of its own, or perhaps if neighboring towns had received word faster—but no amount of _what if _could raise Umbra from the ocean floor.

Umbra had fallen, taking most of its citizens with it in its demise; either to Grimm or to the crumbling cliffs or to the sea, the Umbran population saw their deaths at the hands of nature.

“I was running away from home,” Ozma said. “When it happened. I had a chance to save them but I kept running. Now I have nothing.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Salem said helplessly. “You couldn't have done anything.”

Ozma smiled bitterly and didn't say anything. By the simple existence of that silence, Salem knew Ozma didn't believe her.

She looked down, worrying her lip between her teeth, unsure of what to do. While it was true that, had Umbra had more hands on deck to fight the Grimm, it may not have been lost—but she had deep, sincere doubt that one single person would have changed the outcome.

She also doubted that saying as much would make Ozma feel better.

The seconds passed until she could bear it no more, and changed the topic. “There was another thing I wondered,” Salem said. Ozma looked up. “Forgive me if this is too forward.”

Ozma grinned, picking at a hangnail absently. “I'm not sure there is such a thing for us, Salem. We have offered up our deaths to one another; what further shame can there be in life?”

Salem looked out at the plains, wondering how to formulate her question, feeling at once uneducated and inelegant. “You said you could never be the daughter nor the son that they wanted,” she said, watching the moon slowly creep across the sky—“I was simply wondering how I should think of you, then.”

Ozma didn't sound put off by the question. “I am not picky.”

“Really?” Salem challenged. “You looked so fatigued in Mascon, when they all lauded a heroic man who seemed to share your name. A stranger to us, surely—because it looked like it was killing you to hear it over and over.”

Ozma smiled then, wide and earnest and a little surprised. “You really do notice everything, don't you?”

Salem pulled her knees up, hugging her legs and resting her head on her bare arms, watching Ozma pensively. “I learned to read moods,” she said, adding in a dry tone: “it was mandatory, with Father around.”

That injected a dose of that familiar bitter pain in Ozma’s smile. “I suppose that makes sense, though I did not want to dwell on it on your behalf.”

“It would be nice,” Salem said, “if you were angry for me. Because I am angry for you. For how you never seem permitted comfort.”

“Thank you,” Ozma said, and looped back to her question: “Frankly, it would please me most to be seen as neither—hence why I disappointed both of my parents so dearly. I am not their son or their daughter. I wished they could still have seen me as their child, despite that.”

Salem lifted her water and sipped it deliberately, holding back some choice words for Ozma’s parents that were so beyond her station to speak it was not even slightly funny. She knew it was not her place, and held her disparagement, as passionate as ever—as was always her downfall.

Instead, she said: “Well, I like you, Ozma.”

“It brings me relief to hear it,” Ozma said, lifting their eyes to heaven, honey-brown bathed in starlight. “Strange—I've never really told anyone in such plain terms how I feel. Something about you, Salem—something makes the human heart so honest when you are near.”

They seemed so ethereal under the starlight, as if the night had been created solely for them, to cloak them in safety and speckled light.

“Am I leading you astray?” Salem mused. “Hero of justice?”

“That isn't really me, and you know it,” Ozma said with that cheeky grin that made them look a decade younger. “I've been biding my time since Umbra fell into the sea. I've been pretending to be a just and kind person to fool people into thinking I'm worth missing. You've just given me a chance to break free. Isn't it all just selfish?”

Salem made a face. “If that's truly so, you've fooled me as well, Oz. We can discuss until morning breaks whether a good act done with selfish intent is still inherently good, but it won't change your standing in my opinion at all. Give it up; you're likable. I liked you the moment I saw you.”

“Ah, the charm of a defeated warrior who came to your father for death.”

She smiled, flashing her teeth in a feral kind of humor. “What can I say—blood flatters you, darling.”

Ozma laughed, but didn't dare say anything—they seemed to hope that the low light of night was concealing the color in their cheeks.

* * *

They rode easy, for Ozma’s sake. Days were long on this side of the globe and it was a scenic delight to simply ride, with all the leisure of two who knew they were fated for death soon. They greeted passing people with cheer and smile, never once letting on their secret—it was for them only, exchanged in mischievous looks as if it was somehow a crime to take one’s own life.

At night, they told stories—the fables they had each been raised with. Salem had fairytales from her maids and nannies—Ozma had the stories of Umbran faith. They exchanged ideas like sustenance. Like they were both starving.

Ozma told Salem about the sea, about the beliefs of water and fire, about obeisance. About making offerings to the gods in exchange for safe harbor. They talked at length about the virtues of good travelers and the grand adventure of sailing. About the cleansing funeral pyre. About souls.

But Umbra had fallen into the sea, Salem thought, quietly to herself—so she did not know how much to place in their ideas of obeisance and divine protection. Did not fully know how far to trust this bridge of faith. Umbra had fallen and no one had lit a pyre for it. No one had survived to.

No god had saved Umbra.

In return, Salem only had scattered fairytales—of heroes and legends through time, of good and evil. She had been raised on a hodgepodge of ideas from across the world, by too many hands to count; maids and nannies and guardsmen alike pouring one story each into her waiting hands. Ozma had only heard a few of them, and she relished in their attention, gladly telling fable after fable—none as weighty as the Umbran lore, but each and every one a fantasy. A dream of better times. A hope for a brighter, more just world.

Salem did not know how much faith she had in those, either—but Ozma liked them, and she enjoyed telling them, so she kept going long into the dark hours of night. She laid out her thoughts of human morality, good and evil; desperately pleaded her belief that there was some kinder will somewhere, a high Elysium where things were softer and judgment was kinder.

Ozma agreed that it sounded nice. They said they could not wait to meet it. And Salem agreed with them.

The hunt for a softer world was carved into both of their skeletons, written into their very beings. They slept, side by side or curled up as one, arms around each other. Salem buried her face in Ozma’s back, arms gripping their waist, legs fitting into one another as if molded for this. The world was soft so long as they were asleep, so long as they were together. The world shared between their glances was kinder. The world hidden in their clasped hands was warmer.

They bathed in a river on the way to Saros. Ozma told her: this river goes through Holy Saros and meets the sea. When she rinsed her hair out in the water, it felt like sending Saros a message: they were coming.

The water was cool and refreshing. She dunked Ozma under and they laughed when they resurfaced, splashing her in revenge. The river was deep but the current was mild and she scrubbed Ozma’s hair with both hands, roughly cleaning all the dust of the road from their head. Ozma leaned into her touch, content as a cat.

Afterwards the two of them lay in a field of grass, sprawled out to dry in their soaked undergarments, pointing out shapes in the clouds and identifying the sounds of a dozen different insects. The glorious sun had only warmth to give and soon their skin was dry, hair merely damp. Ozma ruffled out their mop of brown hair until they resembled a shaggy dog after a bath, looking at Salem with such infinite glee it was impossible for her to not laugh along.

They got dressed and back in the saddle and Salem thought to herself that truly, this was the best decision she had ever made. She was free; she was in control of her destiny; she was at peace with her choices.

Ozma, too, seemed lighter every day, more at ease the longer they traveled with Salem. She caught them watching her, but if she made a questioning noise—if she tried to prompt a conversation—Ozma merely smiled and shook their head and returned to their own business. She wondered what was going through their head; wondered what they were thinking in those silent moments.

She dared not ask.

By the time they rode into Great And Holy Saros, the festival was fast approaching. Every street was crisscrossed above by colorful bunting and they could already smell the street vendors preparing their huge quantities of food.

Holy Saros was an earthy town of square sandstone buildings with latticed windows and colorful doors. It was hot, and built for heat; the houses were naturally cool inside despite the arid heat that beat down on them from above. The river running through it was bright blue, but even that brilliance didn't hold a candle to the cerulean ocean it mouthed into.

It was a bustling city. Everywhere they looked were people going about their daily business, vendors peddling their wares, kids playing and stalls cooking food. Ozma and Salem stabled their horses and went on foot through the throngs of people, taking in the sights and smells, hand in hand to avoid being separated.

They followed the river until they found an inn with a free room. They booked it for the night; the festival was tomorrow, the innkeeper said, so they were just in time.

With their sparse belongings stowed in their room at the inn, Salem and Ozma took to wandering again. They didn't have much money left, but afforded themselves a sampling of the street food, tasting everything they came across with abandon. In the tower, Salem had always eaten what she was served by her staff; fancy, delicate dishes, plated as if a display piece not meant to be eaten at all. She supposed that had its own value, that it was a skill and that each to their own—but right now, it was the stalls and their spices and grease that captured her heart.

She told Ozma as much, between mouthfuls of fried meat, and they laughed—not really _at_ her, but _with_ her, and that was a nice feeling.

“You enjoy trying new things,” Ozma said. “That much is clear.”

”Can you blame me?” Salem replied, smiling over the edge of a pint of alcohol—“I never in my life have had so much fun. I'm satisfied, Ozma—well and truly satisfied. I'm doing everything I wondered of; everything I dreamed of. Everything is wondrous and I'm sated.”

“Yeah,” Ozma said. “It's been fun. Not caring what people think of us. Only doing things I want to do. It's been—so very fun, Salem. I'm glad we did this together.”

They sat down on a bench, looking out at the river and the life beyond it.

“How do you feel?” Salem asked quietly. “About this place. Saros.”

“It is a lovely place to die,” Ozma said. Their voice, while affirmative, had an ephemeral edge as if even they could not believe it. “I want it here. I want to see the festival and then I want to die.”

“I was thinking the same,” Salem said, leaning against them heavily, head on their shoulder. “So—tomorrow.”

“Are you frightened?” Ozma asked.

Salem thought about it. Thought long and hard about it until her thoughts spun in circles around it. “I don't think so,” she eventually said. “I don't know enough about it to be afraid. I've only ever feared such tangible things—imprisonment, my father, things like these. Death is—no one can tell me what it is like. No one can explain why it is to be feared. It isn't as tangible. So I cannot fully fear it. On the contrary; I am intrigued to go on this final adventure with you.”

Ozma hummed. “I feel very much the same,” they said simply, and left it at that.


	3. Chapter 3

Fire. They settled on fire. Not because it was painless—far from it—but because out of all the forces they knew, Fire was the only one that could purify. Magic was useful, but it was dirty; magic left scars on the world, left scorch marks of morality. Blades were in themselves clean but their remains would not be. Ozma believed in the freeing power of fire; of ritual burning of body and belongings. Salem felt the glory of fire, could picture vividly the color and play of it.

But when they stood surrounded by combustion fuel, ready to pour the oil, Ozma hesitated.

Salem reached for a canister. Ozma accepted it when she offered it. Uncovered the opening. Gas—oil—designed to burn hot and long. For lamps or engines or god knows what—for death.

It was the end of the festival. All day they had run about like madmen, indulging in every pleasure they stumbled upon—food and games and smoke dens, dances and songs they didn't know but were brave enough to improvise. Great And Holy Saros was beautiful and vibrant, and when night fell, the lights strung up along every house and line of bunting shone like a million stars. Far beyond them, the ocean lapped lazily at the coast, waves rolling in rhythmically as a constant backdrop to the music and cheer of the city.

They stood on a rooftop looking down at the festivities. Throngs of people below who did not look up. The flat sandstone roof had an edge, so their firestarter should not spill; Ozma had made sure of that.

The city was so vast. The lights of the festival blurred before Salem’s eyes. She found herself overwhelmed—by the sheer scale of it all, by the amount of people there, by the magnitude of a world full of thousands of humans who would never even know her name.

She clutched a canister of oil and grit her teeth, banishing the thought, pouring the fuel. It cascaded down her body in waves, pooling shiny and blank across the empty rooftop, running rivers down her face and arms and sticking in her hair. The smell of it was strong and dangerous. It was a smell that promised fire.

Ozma nodded and upended the other canister. The shower of combustion fuel slicked brown hair to skin, had their clothes sticking heavy and close. Ozma shook oil from their face and blinked against it, squinting carefully to ensure none of it dripped into their eyes.

Fire was a ward. It kept humanity safe from the danger of darkness. Kept the wilderness at bay—or when it didn't, it at least kept the fear of the unknown at bay. It was a warm and stalwart protector. Food and warmth and transportation could all be gathered by fire.

But it was also a hungry god. Fire chewed through most things created by mortal man. It killed and destroyed.

And even when it destroyed, Ozma said, explaining the Umbran beliefs from their childhood, Fire was pure. Fire was clean. Fire was the only thing known to man which could kill and still remain clean. It burned, and the things it burned it released into the air in new forms; as smoke and chemicals. No evil can withstand the heat of fire. Ash was one of the cleanest things in the world.

Salem thought that sounded beautiful, and when Ozma drew the matchbox, she clutched their hand around it.

“It's time,” she said. “Finally.”

Ozma’s hand was slick with oil around the box of matches. They had taken a match out, but held it still, not yet touching the lighter. “How do you feel?”

Salem smiled. “Eternal,” she said.

Ozma touched the match to the lighter and paused. Salem lay her other hand on Ozma’s, holding the match there together. Ready to draw it together.

But Ozma hesitated.

“What is it?” Salem asked softly.

“What _is_ it,” Ozma repeated under their breath, as if in disbelief at their own actions. “I—”

“We have all the time in the world,” Salem said reassuringly.

Ozma swallowed thickly, staring down at the match they both held. If Salem yanked her hand back now, the match would undoubtedly strike, whether Ozma was ready for it or not. “I think that's the problem,” they said.

“What is?”

“All the time in the world. That's what I want.”

“We have all the—”

“With you, Salem. With you.”

They finally looked up and met her eyes, vulnerable and raw as a wound all of a sudden. More words ghosted their lips, but made no sound at all, and Salem was no good at reading lips.

“I don't understand,” she said quietly. Her hand shook a little and she gripped Ozma’s more tightly to still herself.

“I don't think I want this anymore,” Ozma said.

It was Salem’s turn to stare at the match they held.

Ozma continued, stumbling through the words as if she might strike the match at any moment and cut them off: “I don't want to meet eternity in death. I want forever with you, Salem.”

“What are you saying?” Salem’s head was spinning. “You want—?”

“You,” Ozma breathed, looking like this was killing them. “The problem is that I want _you_. I want to live. With you. For the rest of my life. I want there to be more, Salem, so much I can't stand it. Decades from now I want to still be yours.”

Salem stared at them mutely, feeling stupid and inelegant in her drenched clothes, with her hair sticking to her face and neck, with the blush creeping up her cheeks. “What?” she managed to croak.

“I changed my mind,” Ozma said, tone pleading. “Salem, I—I must be losing my mind, I—I know it's a bad time, a bad place, for us both, but I think I've fallen in love with you.”

The world revolving before her eyes, Salem swayed on the spot, head heavy with the smell and gas of fuel. Her heart hammered as if possessed, her lungs hurt as if she might never draw full breath again, and her eyes swam as she stared down at the prepared matchstick.

“What are we doing?” she breathed. “Oh, Ozma, I—yes, you're right. I want to _live_—with you. Only with you. If you weren't here I'd strike this match but you are, you are here, and I—I want to—to live together with you.”

The tip of the matchstick still set against the strike point, and the two of them staring at each other absolutely crestfallen. Either one of them could pull the match at any second. For a moment, it was tempting to, just to see what would happen. Just to play with fire. 

And then Salem let go of the box, of the match, pulling Ozma’s hands apart when she did; pulling match from lighter and pulling Ozma close. Her hands in their slick hair, on their still-wet cheek, she pulled them in and kissed them. Ozma kissed her back, desperate yet reverent, as if they feared she might disappear at any moment. But it was so real, all of it real; Ozma’s mouth tasted of sour oil and the spices of the food they had taken, and their hands were so secure on her waist and she thought this was surely better than any human death.

With an earth-shattering noise, a bright light illuminated the two of them, and for a terrifying moment Salem thought the fuel had somehow caught—but when she pulled her face from Ozma’s and looked up, she saw the gently descending stars of a firework.

“That scared me,” Ozma laughed, a magical sound. “Salem, I—”

“We would have missed it,” Salem said, as two, three, four more rosettes opened in the dark sky, in vibrant color and light. “We would have missed the fireworks.”

Ozma held her shoulders, pressing her to their chest as they both looked up at the fireworks. “I'm sorry,” Ozma said.

“For what?”

“Everything. All of this. Our plans.”

“I'm sorry too,” Salem said, “that it took going this far for us to realize. But you know what?”

Ozma let go of her, and she stepped back enough to see their face, but not enough to let go of them. “What?” they asked.

Salem kissed them again and said, “I would do it all again for you.”

Ozma was red in the face and dead silent, clearly flummoxed for a response. Salem hadn't pegged them for shy; but she supposed she wasn't surprised, at the same time. She knew them; knew their gentle personality, their withdrawn emotions, and she could read them easily.

She could tell Ozma was happy. That was all that mattered.

Finally, Ozma said: “We should get out of here in case one of those big sparks falls down here and lights everything.”

It was outlandish enough of an idea to make her laugh, but somehow, pressing enough to make her move. Ozma and Salem ran, laughing and screaming, down the stairs and through the streets, under the constant flashing and booming of the fireworks—until they hit the river. Still running, they only exchanged one daring look, not even stopping to think about it before climbing over the railing and jumping in—splashing messily in the water, a flail of limbs and screaming.

They would be reprimanded for roughhousing shortly. But right now, Salem didn't care. Right now, the cool water made her feel alive as it rinsed the death from her clothes in rainbow hues. Right now, Ozma was laughing and whooping and looking at her as if she was the sole answer to all of life’s questions.

When they were dragged out of the river by a trio of stern security officers, all they could do was look at each other and laugh. They were scolded as children were scolded and they felt like children too—alive, without worry for what that meant or entailed.

Maybe they were too old to feel this way. But she looked at Ozma, laughing, and she decided she didn't care. And when Ozma caught her eye she could tell: the thought hadn't even crossed their mind.

In the first hours of morning they walked through the streets, exhausted but satisfied, hand in hand. Their clothes had mostly dried in the crisp warm night. Salem felt giddy, threading her fingers between Ozma’s like every touch of their hand was brand new.

The two of them had participated in every late-night festivity they could find, had toasted with strangers and drunk too much and played loud games until their throats were hoarse.

They had made no further plans for the future. But right now, that felt okay. For now, all they needed was Saros’ long night, the festivities in the air, and the bashful love shared in each stolen glance.

She wanted so much. Salem wanted everything. For this night to never end; for eternity with Ozma in this soft lighting, with this soft warmth about her heart. She wanted a life, with a house and a hearth and Ozma at her side. She wanted love eternal, life eternal; she wanted to grow old with someone.

The thought made her feel so profoundly human that she thought she might weep.

They retired to their room at the inn. Their relationship had been so physical from the start; it had never mattered until now. They had held hands and slept tangled in each other's limbs and shared everything from clothes to cups but it had never felt important. It mattered now, all of a sudden it mattered so much; it had a weight and a tangible emotion driving it forward and Salem didn't know what to do with that. It had been comfortable the entire time; as natural as breathing, neither of them had ever offered their physicality any thought, but all of a sudden it mattered.

Salem sat in her undergarments, felt the hems and heavy drapes of her outfit and found them still damp with river water. It would take some more time to dry.

“Hang these too,” she said, holding her clothes out to Ozma. They were hanging their own clothes up over the windowsill, and took hers without a word.

Even this was not, strictly speaking, new. When they boarded at inns, they always shared a bed, always saw one another under-dressed and sleepy and warm.

But even this felt different. Going to the brink of death together only to find love there had changed everything. Ozma wouldn't look at her, and just like them even she was bashful, kept her eyes averted when she could.

This was ridiculous, she knew. Nothing had really changed. She wondered if it was an underlying expectation. Maybe; she hadn't searched herself thoroughly enough.

She clambered into bed and pulled the blankets up to her chin. “You sleepy?”

Ozma smiled, watching their hands more than anything else as they finished hanging up Salem’s clothes. “Very. We've been up all night. Not to mention how we crammed about a decade’s worth of emotions into one evening.”

“Never a dull moment, with you,” Salem said. In a softer voice, she added: “I was really surprised, you know.”

Ozma turned around, saw her peering out owlishly from the blankets, and couldn't help the smile that cracked through their embarrassment. “How come?”

She held the blankets open, beckoning them to come to bed, trying her hardest not to make it weird. “I thought—I don't know what I thought,” she said.

Ozma crawled in under the blankets, body warm and comforting. Silence, for a while—Ozma clearly didn't want to interrupt her.

“I guess I thought we weren't capable,” she mused. “That I wasn't capable of being loved. That you couldn't ever—not me.”

“I thought I was done,” Ozma said. “I thought I managed to stomp out any longing for companionship I had, you know. That I had perfected isolation.”

They turned around to lie on their side, to face her—their knees knocking together in the small bed. “But there was something about you that was irresistible. That I just couldn't keep out.”

“Yeah,” Salem said. “That's what it’s like. There's something about you that I can't fight.”

“You are loved,” Ozma said. “Because I love you.”

“Maybe no one told you this,” Salem said, seizing Ozma’s face between both hands as if desperate for them to hear, “but you, too—are infinitely worthy of love. Are loved infinitely. You are perfectly you, Ozma, and I love you. Definitely; _infinitely_; I love you.”

Ozma was quiet but there was a glaze over their eyes, a promise that if Salem kept talking, they would cry. They didn't seem unhappy—rather the opposite—but Salem still lapsed into silence, staring into their misty eyes.

No one had told them. It was a knot in her stomach. No one had told them, in the exact same way that no one had ever told _her_.

She put her forehead to Ozma’s and closed her eyes and didn't say anything, but hoped the gesture alone would somehow convey the endless grief and adoration mixing in her. Ozma held her in return, hands on her back quivering slightly.

It was warm. It felt safe. She was in love, for all of the surreality and fear that entailed; and she was loved in return.

She opened her eyes and Ozma was looking at her, no longer misty-eyed but full of the same wonder and amazement she felt. Two in tandem, hearts beating in perfect sync; even their thoughts and emotions were in similar waves.

Surely, this must be destiny.

She said as much, so low under her breath that it was only their sheer proximity that let Ozma hear her at all. And Ozma smiled bashfully and agreed; destiny, indeed.

Salem kissed them, and it was impossibly sweet, impossibly tender; she feared her heart might burst from it. She held Ozma to her chest, buried in the crook of her neck, arms around each other and legs tangled in each other, and they drifted to sleep—safe, warm, alive.

* * *

They slept late into the daylight hours. Salem awoke to the feeling of her arm totally numb, her head warm and heavy still with sleep as she took stock of the situation. Ozma was on her arm, their back to her front as they snoozed, totally unfazed by her newfound plight.

She scoffed. She was a lonely girl who had finally learned the pristine value in calling little spoon. Ozma slept like an angel, and she was unsure if she could extricate her numb arm without waking them.

Salem supposed that as far as problems went, this was not a supremely big one to have.

Biding her time, Salem considered their options. They had spent most of the money. They didn't really have a plan. They might be able to afford a night or two more at this inn, but they would have to come up with a source of income if they were serious about staying alive.

She breathed heavy, flexing her fingers and feeling the uncomfortable tingling shooting up all the way to her upper arm. She still didn't know how to live, didn't have a single clue where to begin, but for the first time, she realized that she wanted to learn.

Salem gave up on subtlety and started pulling her arm out, despite how cold it felt to lift her body away from Ozma’s. She admired the runs of muscle in their back and shoulders as she sat up, eyes unabashedly tracing the line from jaw to slender throat to shoulder-blade. She shook out her arm, trying to inspire reasonable bloodflow, and wondered about the scars littered about Ozma's body.

She had never asked. It felt likely that she might never get around to it. That there were too many individual stories to ever recount them all. But she reached out, lightly tracing a pale line that cut down Ozma’s lower back, and thought about it.

Ozma grumbled something unintelligible and sleepy, and Salem placed the hand flat against them instead, firming up the touch so it was less tickling.

“Sleep,” she said. “Just sleep.”

She didn't need ask Ozma twice. They said nothing more, already drifting deeper.

Salem curled up against them again, ensuring none of her limbs were weighed down by either body, burying her face in the back of their neck. 

She wondered what marketable skills she had. Frowned about it into the wild mane of Ozma’s hair. She could not ask them to go on the way they had been; fighting villains too strong to beat, in hope of death, collecting bounty far above their pay grade.

She supposed she could join them. Fighting together might be fun, as long as the two of them kept their focus on jobs they could manage. She didn't have a lot of experience using magic in combat, but—

But she had murdered her father, and it had been easy.

Best not to dwell on it. The mere memory of Father made her skin crawl, even here and now, a month and many miles away.

Her embroidery, she supposed—she could likely sell some pieces. She had learned it from the high-standing maids of noblemen; it was fine work.

She couldn't really think of anything else she could be good at. But whether it be by the blade or by needle and thread, she was determined: Ozma deserved good. She would be good.

Salem feared she may become overwhelmed and weepy, so she closed her eyes and thought no further.

Her heart was doing zig-zags. She had no idea what was ahead but she felt so strongly about it—about the existence of a future. About Ozma.

It had crossed her mind: maybe she was latching on to them because she was lost. Because she didn't know what else to do, without a perceived authority to guide her every step. Because she didn't have anything else, had never had anything else.

She didn't quite know how to ascertain these things, and she didn't quite know if it would truly matter if she did.

She concluded: so what?

Salem had been reborn, it felt like—not quite by fire, but by baptism. And the freshly living Salem only cared about one thing: being happy.

If Ozma were awake, they would call it a commendable goal, and pull one of their lazy grins—the kind of slow, content smile that could woo anyone, Salem was sure. She would quickly add that her happiness hinged on Ozma’s, and they would laugh and say that they knew, that it would always be like that, for both of them.

“Let's do good,” Salem murmured, breath warm on Ozma’s skin, weaving herself a promise while Ozma slept: “Let's strive for good. And if we can't—let's go for blood.”


	4. Chapter 4

They decided to stay in Saros for now. It seemed a good a place as any—the sight and feel of it still filled them both with the thrill of life, the memory of the festival night still bright in both their minds.

The bloody money they had left from Salem’s father was gone. They spent the last of it on a bit to eat and a bundle of fabric and a sewing kit. They spent the last of it on an effort to restart both their lives.

Ozma ran odd jobs around the city. They couldn’t afford to board anywhere now, but they managed to strike a deal with a man who owned some land at the edge of Saros—they slept in the barn, in exchange for keeping his animals fed and the barn clean. Salem did that every morning when she woke up, tending to chicken coops and a herd of sleepy goats and making sure her and Ozma’s things weren’t making a mess. Ozma did whatever jobs they could get their hands on—running courier around the city, construction work, even vermin problems weren’t off the menu.

Every day, when she finished tending to the animals, Salem sat down and worked.

It had been a long month since she last worked with a needle, but her fingers quickly remembered the job. She sat for hours on end until her neck complained and her back was stiff, needle ducking in and out of fabric monotonously, stitching elaborate embroidery for pillows and garments and tapestry. Some were inspired by the journey, in improvised patterns; others were by rote, standards from her hometown. It was familiar, and like the old days, she found her mind entirely absent from it. She thought about nothing at all for hours at a time but it was less harrowing now; it was less about survival, and more about making a living. The hounding that she had to finish this to thrive—with Ozma. So she embroidered and sewed together and thought up yet new embroideries, only pausing to eat or sleep or feed the animals.

Ozma returned every night looking tired but satisfied, bringing in whatever they had earned. It was decent enough money for a little food; nothing fancy, but strangely, when their eyes met, they both smiled.

The light was growing wane. Salem still worked, eyes narrow under the flickering lantern light. Ozma lay under a blanket watching her. They seemed fascinated by needlework, could never seem to get enough of watching her embroider. It was quiet while she worked—she was never one for humming, really—with only the sound of wind through grass and distant crickets for company.

“Let’s go into the market tomorrow,” Ozma said, soft and low and comfortable. “I think we’re ready to try and sell some of your work.”

“Quite,” Salem said, pulling the thread taut, ducking the needle back in. “Presuming anyone’s buying.”

“They’re beautiful,” Ozma said.

Salem smiled. “Then you’re in charge of pricing,” she said.

“What’s this one going to be?” Ozma leaned a little closer to see the pattern. “It’s pretty dark in here. You should stop for tonight.”

“Almost done,” Salem said absently, tying off the thread to choose another color. She settled on a green and re-threaded the needle. “A hat.”

“Oh! That would be cute.”

“Mm.” Salem frowned, trying to see better as she added green to the pattern. Despite the dark, her hands were deft as ever, confidently placing stitch after stitch. It was simple geometry. Repetitive pattern.

Ozma didn’t say anything for a long time, content to lie there on their stomach watching her. They must be tired after a long day, but always seemed reluctant to sleep alone. Was it politeness that kept them, or simple fear of loneliness? Salem didn’t know. It felt rather uncouth to spring the question so randomly.

Before Saros, they had traded questions and answers easily—because none of it mattered anymore. None of it had weight.

Now, she felt quite put on the spot, unsure of how to deal with the fallout of their honesty. They each had said a lot of things—heavy things, personal things—and it was unclear to her whether they were appropriate to discuss anymore.

Time passed her by slowly, then all at once. She looked up through the cracks in the boards of the roof and saw stars, the gas in the lamp burning low and orange. There was a prickle at her eyes, exhaustion needling in, and Ozma’s head was on their folded arms, eyes closed so peacefully.

Salem patiently tied off her last thread and straightened her work, flipping it right side out, assessing every angle. The fabric and embroidery were soft to the touch, with small holes for ventilation under the harsh Saros heat. It was finished, embroidered in fine details but of no established region—it was her own, by a tempest of inspiration and reflection, in green and turquoise and silver and black. She littered hints of her favorite patterns—the shape of a lion squirreled away in the wave of an abstract ocean; an eagle hidden amongst the forest of green stitches.

Her hands were tired. Salem set the hat aside, tidied up her needle and spools of thread, and stretched.

She slept soundly, curled up next to Ozma, and awoke to another bright sunny day. She saw to it that the chickens and the goats had feed and were happy. She gathered the eggs and the milk and brought it all to the landowner. By the time she got back, Ozma was just starting to awaken, eyelids stubbornly slipping back shut at every attempt.

She stood in the door leaning on the frame, watching them, an incessant fondness wrapping itself around her heart like a pair of sheltering wings. It filled her to the brim with warmth, with a feeling so sweet it felt wrong to call it a heartache—but ache it did, in a pleasant sort of way, in the kind of way that made her feel as though just imagining being alone would kill her.

“Good morning,” she said. Ozma made some unintelligible noise that may have been a greeting or it may have been a swear. Salem smiled either way, pushing off the door frame to sit at their side and hand them water to drink, food to eat. “You were tired yesterday, weren’t you?”

Ozma nodded and made a vague noise of agreement, seemingly torn between accepting breakfast and going back to sleep. Finally, they mustered actual words, slurring: “Big day today too, love.”

Her heart skipped in its steady rhythm and Ozma must have noticed her silence, because they got a contemplative frown on their face, clearly trying to recall what they had just said. Salem tried to press on: “Yes! We have to get set up at market, we—”

“Do we do pet names?” Ozma asked, clearly in a sleepy haze despite their best efforts. “Is that a thing we do?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Salem said.

“No,” Ozma said, a revelatory spark in their glassy eyes. “No, that’s not true, Salem, I remember you called me _darling_ once and I thought I would die right then.” They laughed sleepily, burying their face in the blanket.

“That was—before,” she said quickly, pushing at Ozma. “Come on, get some breakfast, we have to get up and go.”

“In a minute,” Ozma said. “I just feel so happy to be here. With you.” They peered up at her from the blanket. “So do you not like it?”

“Hm?”

“Pet names.”

She looked up. “What? No—”

“Sorry—”

“No—not that—I mean—I don’t mind,” Salem rushed to correct herself, hot in the face. “It’s fine. It’s good. I just didn’t know if—I didn’t know how to respond, is all.”

Finally, Ozma’s sleepy concern broke into a lazy grin and they closed their eyes, content. “I’m glad,” they said. “That makes me happy. It made me happy when you called me—well, it was a while ago, now. Too early, frankly, but you and I were never proper.”

“We were never proper,” Salem agreed. “It can’t be proper, if one’s first date is patricide.”

Ozma laughed at that and finally sat up, shaking sleep from their shaggy head and rubbing at their eyes. The two of them ate breakfast in companionable small-talk. Ozma got dressed and they packed up their things for the day—all the embroidery, bundled up in a blanket to sit on.

As they left the barn, Salem said, “Wait, one more thing.”

Ozma stopped, obedient as ever, turning to her with a smile. “Yes?”

Salem raised her hands and placed the hat she had made on Ozma’s head, adjusting it so it sat right before giving them a smile. “There.”

Ozma reached up and touched the hat, but did not take it off. “I thought you were selling this?”

“I made it for you,” Salem said. “This one is just for you.”

With one hand on their head and bright red cheeks, Ozma looked disproportionately awestruck, and she breathed a laugh and said: “What?”

Ozma stammered, “I didn’t know you were making it for me. I—t-thank you!”

“It looks good on you,” she said, taking their free hand and pulling them back into action. “You need to look proper to sell!”

The quip seemed to break the spell of dumbfounded embarrassment and Ozma laughed, giving her hand a proper squeeze in return. “The day is saved, then. Thank you! Let’s make some money today!”

Rather self-satisfied and mellow, Salem agreed with cheer, and as they entered the marketplace to the sound of early-morning shopping and the smell of the first food stands’ opening, she was filled with a tangible sort of accomplishment. A real feeling of contributing. They spread out their blanket in their arranged space, right on the edge of the market and crammed in between bigger stalls—Salem arranged her work and Ozma scribbled little price tags and refused to let her see them until they were placed down on their respective items. “Because you would argue with me,” they said, and stuck their tongue out, putting down another tag.

She made an affronted face and refused to admit that they were right.

* * *

Life in Great And Holy Saros was better. Working together, Salem and Ozma earned a living; selling art and doing manual labor until they could afford a place of their very own to stay. They paid a monthly rent to live in a house on the outskirts of Saros, on the shadow side that fell into the dusk of the wall soon after midday. It was a nice place to live; comfortable and easy.

Salem spared no thought for anything else. She lived every day on its own, and did not think of past nor future. She wanted right now; she wanted right here; the past could not touch her and the future was unknowable. She woke up every day with fresh thoughts, a heartbeat so furiously alive inside her, and Ozma at her side—that was all she needed.

They fell into a rhythm. They had already told each other so many things; yet they re-told every story, ardently, like it was the first time. At night, when they had both finished their work, they sat together and talked for hours. They cooked and played. Every fairy tale felt brand-new; every legend from Umbra, every remembered song and rhyme was like a discovery.

And, gradually, time began to pass.

It felt slow at first; every day was noticeable, a notch in a pillar. Steadily, they turned into weeks, and months, until it was difficult to separate them from one another. Sand in an hourglass running together to form one cascade, each grain indistinguishable but uniquely pushing time forward.

Bodies warm from the sunlight, they would lay side by side in the rolling hills beyond Saros’s walls, looking at the sky like they once had—when death was the only goal of their journey. They lay side by side like that, like then, discussing their lives. Talking about tomorrow’s dinner. Something funny that happened at the marketplace. They held hands like that and when they got up to walk home they still held on. They would kiss in that absentminded way couples do—automatically turning in to meet when the other moved, muscle memory affection. There was no more fear or pain; the past was long gone.

Horribly mundane ever-afters had always bored Salem, but with Ozma at her side, she found herself changing her mind.


End file.
